Thank you for teaching me not to give in so quickly.
Thank you for proving to me that my instincts know best. And, lastly, thank you for ruining everything—temporarily.
I know I’ll find myself in this mess. I know it’ll get better. I know my worth.
I deserve better than a month of “great sex and fun times.” You did everything a boyfriend would have done—but you weren’t labeling it.
My gut told me not to trust you; after all, I knew what I meant to you. I let you play me anyway, because you were just that charming. You left openings and gave me reason to believe your heart was changing.
You f*cked me up.
All the wordless conversations we had in crowded places with just our eyes, the jokes and hidden kisses we shared, the deep and meaningful talks we’d have after rolling around endlessly in my sheets—nothing felt real with you. But, in my mind, it was.
I felt things with you I didn’t intend to feel. You made me think you felt the same.
The trip we took to Paris was so perfect; now, my memories are tainted. All because you couldn’t be honest with me. You wanted to play a game instead, and not tell me the rules.
I knew all along how it would end: You’d leave and we’d pretend nothing happened, just smiling at the good memories we made. Sadly, the story never really goes as planned. You left me with a scar, still healing from the damage the last one did. You knowingly f*cked me up and enjoyed every bit of it.
But despite all the problems you’ve created for me, I’m stronger now. Strong enough to drop you like a feather and watch you slowly fall, fading from life with every breathtaking swoop. I’m strong enough to let go, even though part of me is still holding my hand open, just hoping you’ll reach back and notice I’ve left.
You won’t; I’ve accepted that. You won’t miss me—not the me I showed you, the real me—or the human-to-human connection I created with you.
Thank you for making me realize that I didn’t do it to myself and that I will get through this by myself. I don’t need anyone else’s help getting over you or what you’ve done to me.
I refuse to watch as you mess her up—the way you did with me and the one before, and the one before her, and so on down the line. She’ll realize soon enough.
I could keep going, telling you each and every thing you did to get me where I am—like how you lied to me and cooed me, and kept me thinking there was a chance when you clearly didn’t want there to be one. But focusing on your pretended efforts won’t prove to you why I’m truly grateful for letting you mess me up entirely. It won’t show you how proud I’ve become of myself or what I’ve learned in the process.
So, I say again: Thank you. I sincerely wish you the best. I wish her the best. And, I wish myself the best. Because in the end, that’s what matters the most here—me.
I’m putting myself first until I find someone who can do the same for me that I would have done for you. I’ll give them honesty, and you’ll still be playing your games. I’ll be happy, and you won’t even know the person you see in the mirror. I’ll be someone’s “number one,” and it will be everything I deserve.
But alas, the only way to get there is to pick myself up from the pile of destruction you’ve created. This isn’t to say you broke my heart, because you didn’t. The simple fact is, I was strung up (hoping it wasn’t just all in my head), and ignoring my gut.
But, that’s not the case anymore. I’ve seen your true light over and over again, and enough is enough. I won’t let this bring me down. I’ll stand for me and for the others. I’ll show you that you can’t wreck me the way that you planned. I’ll prove to the others like you that I won’t let them either.
Everyone will soon see that amidst destruction, there’s beauty in reconstruction.
Author: Katelyn Shea
Image: Xavier Sotomayor/Unsplash
Editor: Leah Sugerman
Copy Editor: Callie Rushton
Social Editor: Catherine Monkman